


What Death Leaves Behind

by avyssoseleison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Small Discussion of Consent, Temporary Muteness, The Bathing is non-sexualized
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1611440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avyssoseleison/pseuds/avyssoseleison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his death bed, Sam demands not to be brought back in any way and instead be able to rest in peace, and Dean complies. But Dean has troubles accepting the reality of his brother's death; muted and paralyzed by his grief, he allows Castiel to take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Death Leaves Behind

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Los Campesinos!'s song "What Death Leaves Behind". If you don't know the song or the band, you really should give them a try!

He had promised.

He had promised not to resurrect him, not to try to find a way to drag him back into this life, whether kicking and screaming or empty and soulless or with the weight of condemning anyone to hell for it. No, Sam had forced Dean to promise to just let him go, because this was what he had wanted – to finally find rest. Laughing, he had said that he'd avoided death so often now, the old man in his black suit would probably take a vacation after he's finally reaped him, and that he was glad he'd made it this far, but that this was far enough. He wouldn't take even one more step. And Dean had to accept it.

Dean knew he had to honour his brother's last wish, and he did. For the more than two weeks now after Cas and him had burnt his brother's ridiculously large body on the pyre, giving him a funeral befitting of a hunter.

Not just any hunter, but the best there ever was.

Cas had smiled at him when Dean said so as the flames licked at Sam's body, and then he had taken him into his arms as Dean sobbed pathetically into his shoulder, for hours and hours and well into the night. Cas had held him all throughout it, not trying to say any of those empty words proclaiming there were better times to come and that he was in a better place now, and he didn't try to make Dean stop his choked-out whines and broken confessions about how much he had truly adored his brother and that he didn't want to let him go. That he was the elder brother, and as such, it was the task of the younger brother to be pampered by the elder one all his life, for the single burden of having to live a littler longer than him – in no way was it acceptable for the younger one to die first. Especially not in the line of a fire he hadn't chosen for himself, but that he had been forced into until he was forced out of it again – with his lungs punctured and his body shattered, barely hanging on in the hospital, smiling at Dean and Cas and wringing the promise from Dean. As well as another one from Cas, asking him to take care of his brother. So Cas had.

The day after the funeral, Castiel had still taken care of him, still touched and caressed Dean in a way that the hunter would never admit to craving, especially then. But it seemed foolish to pretend not to appreciate and need the angel or bat his hands away after he had been a mess in his arms the night before, so he let him. He never initiated any contact, though, and Cas obviously sensed whenever Dean needed to be left alone, so he did have some time to himself.

But when he was gone too long, hidden inside the depths of the bunker's long-winded hallways and countless rooms, Castiel tracked him down, stroked him with tender hands and lured him away from the dark corners of their home and his own mind. He made him drink something warm and without any alcohol, tucked him into bed like a child and watched over him – sometimes from a chair near the bed, sometimes from its edge, more than often with his arms around Dean and his stubble rasping against his cheek. He was warm and alive and with him, and the certainty of this was often the only thing that let Dean find any sleep.

Despite the security he had found in Castiel's arms, the grief had muted Dean. On the inside, he scoffed at himself, for it was too clichéd for his own likes to have been rendered speechless by death, as if he was a child that didn't have any grasp on its own emotions and was stunned by there being an end to his bodily existence, instead of being a hunter who had been to heaven, hell and purgatory countless times and had crawled out of his very own grave. He guessed it was the finality that that fucking promise entailed that made him mute, but he didn't want to dig any deeper than this; he was ashamed of his own weakness, and probably would have been even more so had he been with any other person than Cas. Cas, who now was amongst those lowly mud monkeys as one of their own, a consequence of all the mistakes he himself had made over all those years, the biggest of all perhaps saving that one lost soul from hell, and he was the only one who would have been able to understand what Dean went through – and he wouldn't judge.

Dean knew because even after he hadn't been able to get out even one more word after his night of sobbed-out confessions about his brother, Castiel had only smiled softly at him, spoken as if he was fine with not receiving an answer that was more than a nod or a shake of Dean's head, and then went on to tell Dean to have a shower and then join him in the kitchen for breakfast. Dean had cast down his eyes and nodded, feeling raw and vulnerable and full of shame, and did as he was told.

But had he been honest with himself, he would have admitted that he liked having been told what to do. Maybe this thought was as pathetic as his behaviour, but he didn't feel he had the capacity to think for himself or do anything more than accomplish even the most menial tasks, so it was a relief to just having to listen to someone he knew meant no harm. And if he didn't have to voice anything, it also meant that he wouldn't have to lie – he wouldn't have to claim he was fine, that he wasn't hurt and feeling lost because of losing the person whose protection had been the only goal in his life for well over three decades now, and he wouldn't tell Castiel to stop touching him in a weak and useless attempt to uphold whatever misguided imagine he himself had left of the man Dean Winchester.

So he lived through the first and the second week. No words did he speak after that first night, only small gestures or noises as indication of whatever he wanted to express. He couldn't hold any eye contact, and he felt about this much the same way he did about his muteness, but he couldn't help it. Cas told him a story about meditation and about how some monks he had observed had tried to overcome the body by opening their spirit to the world of what's beyond, and that sometimes, they accomplished it – simply because it was possible to let go of the body, as it was only one of the things that were part of a human being, so that it was a natural occurrence for the soul to want to leave by its own means. That sometimes, there was so much to bear that it was difficult to tend to all those different planes that made out a being, and that there was no shame in losing grasp with some of them, just to mend the one that needs it. The one that feels broken – especially if it's the one that never could actually break, but will hurt all the more for it.

Dean assumed he understood what Cas was trying to say. It was such a _Cas-thing_ to speak of, in fact, that it made him smile – not because of the acceptance and the understanding that did underlie it, necessarily, but because this was the kind of crap only Cas could come up with. Cas had noticed his smile and his hand on Dean's neck – because it was meant to be taken literally that he touched him at all times – became a bit tighter, in an affectionately chiding way, just like his voice when he grunted out, "Don't you dare make fun of me, Dean Winchester." But even as he said it, Dean could hear his own smile.

It was on an evening on the end of the third week after the funeral that Dean decided to put an end to his mourning, at least as much as he could and in the way he had done. The reason for this was as primal and simple as it was complicated and long-winded: because Dean had been unable to do anything more than those very simple tasks that barely included more than chewing his food for himself and because he wanted Castiel around him at all times, they had taken to Cas caring for Dean's body. Cas not only cooked for him and brought him to sleep, but he also shaved him, helped him brush his teeth, and bathed him; it was during one of those baths that Dean came to his decision.

Castiel had already helped him out of his clothing and into the tub and had been lathering up his arms with a sponge while waiting for some weird, fancy conditioner to soften Dean's hair or whatever, that Dean woke up from the grief-stricken haze he had lost himself in. Castiel had taken his one hand into his own and worked on Dean's arm with a precision that rivalled the intensity of his stares when Dean felt the need to close his fingers around Castiel's, to respond to the touch of this man who had been so patient with him while he was nothing more than an invalid of his own making. So he clutched at his hand, forbidding him from loosening his grip to also lather up Dean's other arm, and Castiel looked up into his face, very obviously surprised at the sudden reaction after more than two weeks of nothing but empty acceptance.

And Dean didn't avert his eyes, didn't instead stare down at his naked and pliant body hidden under white foam and hidden from the prying of anyone's eyes – because Castiel had been nothing if not respectful of him –, but he didn't want that, not anymore. He wanted to be more than a non-sexual, broken being that was limp and useless and in the care of Castiel's; he wanted to be his equal again.

So he held his glance, and the well-known staring that followed. Castiel smiled, lop-sided and absolutely adorable, as if in relief, but when he spoke up, it was still with the same soft voice that he had held during those weeks.

"Dean, you need to let go of my hand, otherwise I won't be able to clean the rest of your body."

Castiel didn't understand. He probably thought that Dean was showing the first sign of rehabilitation, but was still caught up in his sorrow – that he still hadn't found back to this plane of being. That he still hadn't stopped his attempts at fixing his soul and finally reunited with his body and mind.

Dean didn't let go of Castiel's hand. Instead, he slowly lifted his other one, grasping with it the hand he was already holding, encasing it with all of his fingers. Castiel observed him, probably assessing in how much lucidity Dean was acting. Not enough, his next words told Dean.

"Dean, once we are done here, you can touch me all you want, I promise. I will sleep in your bed and we will hold hands all night, and tomorrow. But you need to let me finish this before the water grows chilly and you catch a cold. Is that alright?"

Dean grew frustrated at that; no, that was not alright. Yes, he wanted to have Cas sleep in his bed and he wanted to hold his hand through the night, but not the way they had done until now – not the way you did with a frightened child. Despite his thankfulness, he felt despair and a long-known longing that had resurfaced with the full return of his mind, and that demanded that he finally acted upon those needs and wishes he had held inside of him many years now. And those were, in no way, how you would act with a child or someone who wasn't in the right state of mind to consent to them, to grasp the meaning behind every stroke and every kiss and who reached out for the other one beneath the blankets, still naked and sated.

Dean shook his head and frowned. At that, Castiel frowned as well, though in confusion.

"I don't understand, Dean."

Timidly now, Dean took away one of his hands again and lifted it even higher, to cup Castiel's cheek. The former angel allowed him to do so with no discernible indicator for actually taking notice of the touch.

"Do you want me to wash your hair out first, Dean?" When he got no reaction but a scowl, he continued on through other possibilities to which Dean could respond with a nod or a shake of his head. "Do you want me to shave you will you are still inside the tub instead of afterwards? Did I hurt you? Do you want to finish the bath yourself? I will still remain here, in that case. Or are you still annoyed that I used the honey soap? I told you, Dean, the more natural the ingredients, the–"

"Cas," croaked out, because  _goddamn,_ he didn't need to hear that health crap again. And also, this was what he really wanted the moment the blur lifted: to talk to him.

Castiel's eyes widened almost comically at that. "Dean?" he asked, very much like someone who met a friend after many years of absence again and wasn't sure whether he hadn't mistaken one person for another, if the one in front of him was actually the one he thought them to be.

Dean couldn't help the way the corners of his mouth lifted. " _Cas_ ."

Just as much as Castiel couldn't help the atypical grin that spread all over his face, and the way he was the one who was clutching at the other one's hand now. He laughed in his relief.

"Dean." He leaned forward, breaching just the little distance between them, and touched his forehead against the hunter's. "Dean," he mumbled more to himself.

"Yeah, Cas," he answered, also grinning. He tightened his grip with the hand cupping Castiel's cheek a bit and tried to angle him just so, that he might be in the right position to do what Dean had desperately been yearning for for so long already. But when he did and when he let his lips brush against the pink, chapped ones of his angel, Castiel suddenly pulled away, his frown already back in place.

"No, Dean."

Dean felt something heavy settle in his gut. Maybe he had miscalculated; maybe all those gazes and those touches they had during their years together actually had meant something different from what he had thought. He had considered this, sure, had actually been convinced of perceiving their relationship all wrong, which was why he hadn't tried anything before now. Because it would have seemed presumptuous and actually fairly ridiculous to assume that a former celestial being such as Cas, a creature full of justice and righteousness and burning light even in his sins and darkest moments would actually care for someone as foul as Dean in such a way. Yeah, Castiel's own doing was what had made him fall in the end, and his own idiocy was made him stay like this, but the incentive for all this, the very origin had been Dean – Dean and his inability to let go of his brother, which he had to inevitably in the end. By now. But because he had failed to so before, because he was too weak to live by himself, Castiel had had to raise him from the perdition he had brought upon himself. Again and again and again.

How could he even have ever considered a different outcome than the way Cas looked at him now disapprovingly?

"I'm sorry..." he said, so quietly that Castiel wouldn't have been able to hear had he been even one step further away.

"Dean, we can't– we can't do this." Dean nodded weakly, understanding. Until Castiel spoke again. "Not now. You are still unwell, and this wouldn't be right."

Dean stared at him, with hope blossoming in his chest. "What...?"

Castiel obviously tried to maintain a stern expression. "Please don't argue with me on this. I am very glad to see that you feel better, but until I can determine that you are able to fully give consent, I cannot surrender to your advances."

Dean gaped a bit. "Does that mean that you'd wanna kiss me if you knew that I, um, want you?"

Torn between the beginnings of a blush and his scorn, Castiel conceded, "Of course. But not– _Dean_!"

Dean had, even if knowing that it would be rather futile, tried to lean forward and at least feel the other one's lips for even a moment, but Castiel gripped his wrists and shook his head in disapproval.

" _Dean_ ."

Dean laughed. "I'm sorry, I just–" He probably looked like an excited child awaiting a trip to a grand theme park by now. "I just never knew you'd feel that way, uh, about me."

Finally, Castiel's expression softened at that. "Of course I do, Dean. But you must understand that I can't possibly expect you to have a full grasp on this after your period of mourning. I am afraid of taking advantage of you. When we started this bath, you hardly had enough coordination not to slip on the wet tiles, so please understand that I try to assess the situation first before expecting you to know what you do."

Sure, Dean understood. He would have felt the same way. But that didn't mean he had to like it – at the same time, it also meant that it could very well be the case that he did indeed not entirely get what he was doing. After all, he otherwise would probably been to chickenshit to do anything about his feelings then. Maybe Cas was unto something there.

He nodded. "Yeah, no, Cas, that's cool. I do get it." He paused for a moment. "It's just a bit embarrassing to, y'know."

"'To'?"

"Uh, be rejected while all naked and stuff. And in general, I guess." He laughed uncomfortably.

Castiel deeply furrowed his brow. "I assure you, this is in no way a rejection. I do want you, Dean." He swiped his thumb over the sensitive skin on the inside of Dean's wrist. "I just need to make sure you really do want me, too. That you understand."

Dean blew out some air. "Yeah."

Castiel smiled at that. "Good." He laid his free hand over the one of Dean's that was cupping his cheek and starting stroking it gently. "How do you feel?"

"Um, apart from the embarrassment, I feel pretty clear." He followed the way Castiel's long lashes brushed against his cheeks whenever he blinked. "I feel..." He pondered for a moment. "I start to actually feel the... the absence of Sammy." And he did – the very moment the haze had started to lift, he had become aware of the ache deep within him that he had failed to notice before. He liked over his lips. "Like I might now face it, instead of... what I did those weeks." He gulped. "Sorry for that, by the way."

"There is nothing to be sorry for."

"Yeah, if you say so. Still. I don't even know if I really did mourn those weeks, or just refused to try to deal with it or something. You know."

"Yes, I know." Gently, Castiel took away the hand on his cheek and gave it back to Dean. He looked like he wanted to tell him he missed Sam, too, or ask him whether he wanted to talk about more right now, but seemed to think the better of it. "My promise still holds true: if you want to, I will help you finish your bath now and I will stay with you the whole night. You can try to make sense of your thoughts until then, and we might resume our talk. Then, or any other time."

Dean grinned cheekily – old habits do die hard, after all, and he didn't want to dwell too long on the fact that even though he freed himself from his haze and even though Cas wouldn't be with him in a sexual sense just now, he still got to keep him for the night. It seemed a bit much, but at the same time, still not enough. But he still preferred to think about feeling Castiel's arms around him than about the conversations about Sam that were to come. "I'd like that."

Cas smiled. "Good."

"Good," Dean echoed in agreement.

Castiel pressed a tender kiss against Dean's forehead and started up the showerhead to finally wash out the conditioner and massage his scalp like he had done those two weeks before. With a growing warm feeling that started overriding the coldness his very own promise had left him with, Dean sighed deeply and let him.


End file.
